Porridge - SJ 3/3 1996

I DON'T LIKE porridge. Well, it's OK, but I wouldn't offer to eat it. Ever. My sister Anna, though, she hates it. Simple as that. Hates it. Now usually in winter, my mother gives us porridge for breakfast. Or she did until last week.

"You need something warm in your tummies as you walk to school," she says.

Last Friday was a grey drizzly winter morning. Mum gave me my porridge, and when my sister was finally dressed, she got hers, too. We spooned extra syrup on it while Mum was making Dad a cup of coffee.

I finished mine and while I brushed my teeth, I could hear Mum reminding Anna for the five hundredth time to hurry up and eat her porridge.

Finally, Mum shouted at her, "You're not going to school till you're finished!"

"But Mum, it's yucky," Anna whined.

I finished packing my bag. Mum sat down and began to collect a spoonful of the cooling grey goo to feed to Anna.

My little sister clamped her mouth shut.

Mum yelled.

Anna grizzled - but still without opening her mouth.

The crosser Mum got, the wider and redder Anna's eyes grew. Huge tears rolled down her cheeks. But she still wouldn't open her mouth.

"NOW!" said my mother in that voice that promised she would not give in. I had learned long ago that I never win a battle with my mother.

I quickly picked up my bag, kissed Mum on the cheek, and took off to school.

Like I say, I've never won a battle with Mum, but Anna...? About quarter past nine, I looked out the classroom window. Running in through the gates was my little sister. She had a white note in her hand, her eyes were still red - and her mouth was firmly closed.

We haven't had porridge since then.